Home is Where Your Heart is Set in Stone
by chauffeuredinthetardis
Summary: It's 1917, and Sherlock Holmes is the heir to the Downton Estate. He is tired of being bored and alone, but his life takes a sudden turn when Downton becomes a convalescent home and they welcome a new guest: a torn yet kind solider named John Watson.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1-"Quiet, Calm, Peaceful…Isn't it Hateful?"

That Monday afternoon, Sherlock Holmes had locked himself in his bedroom to read a chemistry book. A gentleman like himself should have been engaged in this activity in the library downstairs, but thanks to his mother's obnoxiously charitable nature, it had been filled with beds and bandages and bandits and god knows what else. The racket coming from downstairs was absolutely relentless.

Sherlock snapped the book shut and tossed it on the floor. He cradled his head in his hands and groaned. He had absolutely nothing to look forward to. He wasn't away fighting the war because of a small, harmless heart murmur, and everyone who passed him on the street wrongfully thought he was a coward. It humiliated him and made him yearn for the trenches, despite all the horrid things he kept hearing. He was the heir to Downton Estate, which already seemed to be in decline, and he had no desire to run a household. Not to mention his mother was adamant that he immediately find a wife, which, as Sherlock could never tell her, wasn't really his area. He had nothing to do but socialize with terribly ignorant people and occasionally prove to Mr. Carson that yes, whatever bad thing had happened, Thomas and Mrs. O'Brien were behind it. His only comfort was doing research in his room, and all in all, things were horrifically boring.

There was suddenly a soft knock at the door that Sherlock instantly recognized. "Come in, Mother." He said resignedly, turning his back away from the door and pretending to be absorbed in his book once more.

Sherlock's mother, Cora, gently stepped into the room and sat down on a nearby chair. She sighed and prepared herself for what would inevitably be an impossibly difficult conversation. "Sherlock," she said softly, folding her hands in her lap. "I know you want to be away fighting, but it is also imperative that we begin preparing for the future."

Sherlock scoffed and looked up from his book. "Yes, Mother." He said with the hint of a laugh. "Because I care so much about Downton."

Cora walked over and snatched the book from Sherlock's hands. There was now rage seeping through the soft caresses of her voice. "Then I hope you can prove it, Sherlock." She said with a smirk. "Because if you cannot, we're going to let Mary inherit."

"What?" Sherlock exclaimed. "Mary can't inherit, she's a woman!"

"Yes." said Cora. "But it is perfectly legal for us to give the estate to her husband if you are unfit to inherit. And the way you regard this house has your Father deeply worried."

Sherlock should have welcomed the chance to have the weight of inheriting Downton to be lifted from his shoulders, but he simply couldn't. The sibling rivalry between him and his older sister Mary went deeper than most people suspected. They were both too clever for their own good (although Sherlock was usually cleverer) and they had been trying to one-up each other for as long as he could remember. Giving up the estate to her and Matthew would practically be forfeiting.

"I have an proposition." Cora said, peace returning to her voice. "The rest of the summer you will help with the patients downstairs for most of the day. This will prove that you really do care about this estate and your country, and more than just yourself. If you fail to comply, Mary and Matthew will inherit Downton."

This was a nightmare. There was no easy way out now.

"There must be _something _else I could do." Sherlock said, staring at his mother pleadingly.

"Certainly not." Cora said. "You start tomorrow morning, and a new group of soldiers will arrive in the evening, and I expect you to help them get settled comfortably."

Sherlock slammed his hands on the arms of his chair. "Fine." He said bitterly. "But don't expect me to find any sort of happiness in it."

Cora smiled wisely and softly. "I pray that by the time the summer is over, you will find it most rewarding."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. Things could not possibly grow worse.

"But tonight," his mother said smiling mischievously. "We focus on getting you a decent wife."

Sherlock tried to maintain his composure. Turns out things could get worse.

"Ms. Ada Swire is coming to dinner tonight. The younger sister of the late Ms. Lavinia Swire? She's a lovely girl and I'm sure you'll find her-"

"Heartwrenchingly mundane?" snapped Sherlock, causing his mother to roll her eyes once more.

"Sherlock, you're twenty-five years old and in line to inherit. It's high time you've found a wife. There were dozens upon dozens of girls in London last season who would have married you in a heartbeat, all you have to do is chose one. Why is this so hard for you?"

Sherlock began flipping through his book once more. "I'll figure something out, Mother." He said as she got up to leave.

"I certainly hope you do. And I expect you to be a perfect gentleman at dinner tonight." Cora said, closing the door.

Sherlock sat up and groaned at how his mother still treated him like such a child. It didn't look as if things were bound to get much better.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2-Dinner and a Hidden Secret

The dinner gong sounded off at 7:30 sharp, dread and annoyance already beginning to reverberate from every corner of Sherlock's brain. As he made his way downstairs into the dining room, the sight of his younger sister Sybil interrupted his sulking with a subtle but genuine smile.

"Ah, Sybil." He said with a sigh, interlocking his arm with hers. "Another dinner from hell awaits us."

Sybil smiled back sweetly. "Mama told me she's invited Ada Swire to dinner. But I'm sure you'll pick apart all the compromising details of her life to her face to rid of her without a problem."

"Certainly." Sherlock said, straightening his bow tie and swaggering off towards the dining room, preparing to relentlessly ridicule yet another suitor. "Speaking of which, that red splotch on your neck wasn't there this morning…have you been out to see the chauffeur again?"

Sybil blushed and nudged his arm. "Shh…" she said laughing, "No one can know about Branson. Not even you, but you bloody figured it out months ago."

Sherlock smiled even wider as he entered into the already full dining room. Sybil was the best and only friend he had. Together they talked about politics, and literature, and science, and complained about the endless annoyances and the unfair nature of the lives they had been placed into. Sybil knew women weren't Sherlock's area, and Sherlock knew she spent a good deal of the day snogging the socialist chauffeur. They couldn't afford not to get along at this point.

"Ah, Sherlock. Taking a break from your scientific studies at last." Lord Grantham said with a charming air, lifting his wine goblet and motioning him rather urgently into the chair next to Ada.

"Yes." Sherlock said, gulping down a sip of wine. "Chemistry never fails to fascinate me."

Ada giggled. She was a perfectly amiable and lovely young girl of nineteen, with a soft voice and cerulean dress and reddish blond curls stacked on top of her head. She would make an excellent wife for anybody else. She was already staring at him with fascination, as, Sherlock had often noted, women tended to do.

Ada turned to him, nervously fumbling with the napkin in her lap as she spoke. "What aspects of chemistry are you interested in?"

Sherlock laughed wholeheartedly. "Oh, nothing you would understand, Ms. Swire." Out of the corner of his eye he could already see his mother glaring.

Ada bit her lip and tried not to appear hurt. "Well perhaps you might try to explain it to me?"

Sherlock continued laughing as he rearranged the food on his plate. "I doubt you actually have a genuine interest in chemistry Ms. Swire. Clearly you are only asking me this out of societal convention and to impress me because judging by the size of your pupils and the sweat already starting to bead on your forehead, even an idiot could tell that-"

"Sherlock." Cora said firmly. "I believe that's enough."

Sherlock sloppily shoved a spoon of potatoes into his mouth rebelliously and caught Sybil cracking a smile out of the corner of his eye. A year ago she would have been dismissive of his antics, but since her romance with Branson had blossomed, she had become more and more amused by his occasional rude behavior.

Mary gasped in embarrassment. "Sherlock's such a handsome and intelligent young man. It's a wonder…" she said with delicate sarcasm and a glare, as potatoes almost spilled from his mouth. "…that he hasn't been able to find a wife yet."

oOoOoOo

"What the HELL was that?" Robert yelled at his son mere seconds after the Swire family had walked out the door…rather eagerly, in fact.

"Oh you know," Sherlock said. "Just charming the ladies with my deductive skills, as usual." He smirked with amusement and not an ounce of sensitivity for his family's predicament.

Lord Grantham grasped Sherlock by the collar and glared into his eyes with fury, but Sherlock only stared back, smiling with his indomitable and humorous indifference. "Can't you at least _try_ to find yourself a decent wife? And for the love of _God_, Sherlock, stop making fools out of this family!"

"I highly doubt I'm the problem." Sherlock said with one final smirk at his father as he made his way up to his bedroom to read.

As Sherlock turned down the hallway, a hand suddenly emerged from one of the servant's doors and pulled him inside. It could only be one person.

"Sherlock." The voice said with a hint of mischief. "Heard you charmed the hell out of that girl tonight. Why don't you show me how you-"

"Thomas." Sherlock said, ice returning to his eyes. "_Leave. Me. Alone_."

Thomas only laughed. "This war's made us all lonely and broken you know. Even you. Staying home nice and snug with your bloody heart murmur. We used to have such fun, Sherlock, why not cave in, for just one night?"

"I want NOTHING to do with you, do you understand?" Sherlock snapped, shoving Thomas against the wall.

"But where else are you going to go, Sherlock? Who else do you know that you could love without it being a big old game of make-believe?" Thomas smiled, beginning to pace with his hands resting in his pockets.

Sherlock stood in front of Thomas suddenly, towering over him. "You used me, you blackmailed me, you said terrible things about me to the other servants, and you just expect me to _forgive _you?"

Thomas laughed, holding up a crumpled piece of paper with ink scribbled upon it. "You know you have to," he said laughing. "Or else I can show your father this."

Sherlock tried to grab the paper from Thomas's hands. "Ah-ah-ah" he cooed, tucking in inside his jacket. "And even if you did destroy it, we both know there's plenty more where that came from."

"I didn't mean anything I wrote in those." Sherlock said. "You were the only person I knew who was like me, and I was confused, and I had had no idea you would-"

"Not so clever now, are you Sherlock Holmes?" Thomas said smirking. "You give even the tiniest piece of your heart to anyone and you crumble. And what a wonder it was to watch."

"You have no right to speak that way to me!" Sherlock snapped suddenly, walking out into the hallway before his armor cracked completely.

"Alright then," said Thomas. "But I'm still here if you ever change your mind."

Sherlock stormed off to his bedroom and slammed the door. He was having so much fun at dinner and of course Thomas had to come and bring all that glory crashing down. He'd give anything to just fire the man, but if he tried anything, those letters, those _goddamned _love letters would ruin him completely.

Two years ago Thomas had walked into Downton Abbey and swept him off his feet unexpectedly, and Sherlock thought maybe he was normal, maybe he could even be _happy_. But then came the jokes Thomas told about him to the other servants, the cheating with the gardener in the village, the blackmail for money and favors. Before he knew it, Sherlock's heart was frozen to stone again. This time, he thought, permanently.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3-A Study in Chemistry

John's nightmares had raged on in that London hospital. The mud of the trenches, the rats, the gunshots, the disease. A man with a spiked helmet shooting his friend dead right in front of him. A seventeen year old boy gone blind from mustard gas, screaming and pleading for death. The injured came to him. He went through everyone's pain, in his own way. And after taking a shot to both his shoulder and his leg, he was sent home from France and left to recover. The London hospital was the first step, to get the serious stuff taken care of. Now he was in a car on his way to Downton Abbey, the ancestral home of Lord Grantham, to recover and adjust to civilian life.

Doctor John Watson gazed up at the towering castle before him. Although the size of it was intimidating, the ancient cream colored walls, vibrant blue skies and green expanses of Downton Abbey gave John a refreshing sense of hope that he had not felt for a while. He was torn between hating the aristocratic giants that owned the place and feeling honored for being welcomed into its doors.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" said Mike Stamford, the only other man John knew coming to the convalescent home. "Hard to believe some man calls this place home."

"Well," John said, getting out of the car that had brought them there. "I'm certainly glad it's being put to good use."

John smiled as he saw the household lined up at the door to welcome them in. The servants were all in their uniforms, all of them solemnly looking down except for a redheaded housemaid who gave him a flirty smile, much to the disapproval of the housekeeper, Mrs. Hughes. John liked being reminded that women were often very fond of him. Three-continent Watson, that's what they called him.

On the other side of the door was the Holmes family. There was the Dowager Countess, a old but headstrong old woman who seemed to look at the soldiers disapprovingly. Next there was Robert and Cora, the honorable Lord and Lady of the house. Next came their three lovely daughters. The beautifully cold Lady Mary, the rather awkward yet hardworking Lady Edith, and the kind and independent Lady Sybil. At the end stood their son, Sherlock, who looked unlike any man John had ever seen. He stood tall over the rest of the house, his eyes scanning over each of the newcomers as if analyzing and processing them with his mind. He had a mop of messy dark hair and brilliant eyes, and a pale, sculpted face that reminded John of the sketches of Greek heroes from his school textbooks. John looked away just in time from being caught staring.

Lord Grantham took a few steps forward and began to speak. "I'd like to welcome you all to Downton Abbey and to thank you for serving our great country. We hope the war will come to a close in coming days, and that you will find my home a pleasant place to recover. If you would please follow Lady Edith into the Library."

The soldiers stumbled into the house, half of them due to injuries and the other half from pure astonishment. The inside of the house was even more beautiful than the outside. A makeshift hospital room had been set up inside the library, with rows of metal beds looking out of place next to the endless bookshelves and plush red carpet.

John was assigned the bed in the very corner of the library, next to a window. By far the nicest spot in the room. He was given a view as well as a little more privacy. John lay his belongings down at the end of the bed and put his crutches down next to him. Perhaps this stay would be just what he needed.

"Eh, Watson, you up for a game of chess in the drawing room?" Mike Stamford asked. "Me and some of the other boys are gonna have a tournament."

John smiled. "No thank you." He said, watching Stamford walk away. He envied him. It had been Mike's first day in the trenches, and he foolishly stuck his head out and was shot in the arm after only two hours on the battlefield. The man pretended to have been scarred by the experience, but he had seen nothing. It bothered John to no end, to see him complaining next to men who would never walk or see or dance again.

John took a deep breath and sat up at the end of his bed. Most of the men had left to play games in the drawing room or fallen asleep. Looking out from the corner of the library, John realized for the first time how truly alone he was. He had no family, except for his aging parents and alcoholic sister. And what friends did he have…Stamford? Hardly. What was he going to do when the war was over? Set up a practice again? John sighed and stared out the window. Despite being in one of the wealthiest homes in the country, he felt more like he was stranded in the middle of an endless desert, the screams of war still shooting past him from every direction.

oOoOoOo

"It's really not that bad." Sybil said to Sherlock reassuringly as they stood outside waiting for the soldiers to arrive. "Honest. You'll feel much better having done something for the war effort."

Mary let out a laugh. "It's a wonder Sherlock's helping someone besides himself."

"It's not like you're doing anything." Edith said with a hint of pride. "And worrying about Matthew certainly doesn't count."

In a few seconds five or so cars pulled up in front of the house. Sherlock watched carefully as the soldiers filed out. That one used to be an avid cricket player. The next one obviously could play the piano. That one smoked far too many cigarettes. That one…

The next man to get out of the car looked different from the other men. He was short yet very fit in his green uniform, with sandy blond hair and crutches from a leg injury. He looked up at the castle with astonishment and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. When he looked over at his injured friends, something beautiful happened with his eyes. The dark blue of them just seemed to soften…as if the war melted away and suddenly he had nothing to offer but kindness. Sherlock loved when people's eyes showed their kindness. Kind eyes were not a common sight in his house.

His father gave another dreadfully dull speech welcoming the soldiers in and then they were led into the library. A few minutes later, Sybil approached him with instructions.

"Alright." Sybil said, handing Sherlock a pen and paper. "You know the books in this house better than anyone else, so you'll fetch books for the men. Ask them what they want and deliver it. We have almost everything."

Sherlock sighed and made his way into the library. His job would be easier than he thought, for almost all of the soldiers had retreated to the drawing room for games. He would be done with work in no time.

Out of all the men in the library, only two were awake, a dark-haired man with what appeared to be an injured foot near the door and the kind eyed man in the corner. Sherlock approached the dark-haired man first.

"Are there any books I can get for you Officer?"

The man glared at him. "Books?" he asked. "That's what you do? You get people _books_?"

Sherlock looked at him uneasily. "Yes, that's what I was told to do."

"You think just because you live in bloody fairy castle you can be excused from battle and you sit here asking me if I want a-"

Sherlock sighed and tried not to attack the man. "I have a heart murmur. They wouldn't. Let. Me. Fight. Now do you want your book or not?"

The man laughed at him. "Hell no."

Sherlock sulked and hoped the kind eyed man would treat him better. He was simply sitting up, staring out the window, very deep in thought.

"I'm sorry that man was so rude to you," he said, looking up at Sherlock. "The heart murmur thing is common enough that people should learn to treat it with respect instead of instantly presuming cowardice. Besides, I know a man who likes adventure when I see one."

Sherlock smiled at the compliment and held his hand out to him. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Doctor John Watson." The man said, shaking his hand firmly. "And I have high hopes that this library has something good to read."

"Excellent." Sherlock said, looking down trying to keep from blushing when he looked into the Doctor's soft blue eyes. "What do you have in mind?"

"I don't know." Said John. "What do you like to read?"

Sherlock froze. "Um well…mostly books on chemistry and anatomy…I don't know if-"

John's eyes lit up. "I'd quite enjoy that actually. I haven't been up on developments in medicine since I was in school."

"Alright then." Sherlock said. "I'll see what I can find."

Sherlock got up and wandered over to the bookshelf. He already felt a hint of compassion for the army doctor, and none of these books seemed good enough. Except…

Sherlock ran his finger softly over the spine of his favorite chemistry book. It was more than just a manual; it was filled with all of his notes, scribbles, and experiments. It wasn't something you simply lent out to a stranger. But there was something so trustworthy about Dr. Watson. John. _John. _It had always seemed such a simple name to him, but paired with his essence, it seemed so much richer.

Sherlock grabbed the book from the shelf.

"Here you are Dr. Watson." He said, handing the book to John. "I hope you don't mind, but it's a bit littered with notes from my studies."

"Not at all." John said with a smile. "And feel free to call me John."

"John." Sherlock said, letting the name roll off his tongue slowly. "I'll see you around."

"Goodbye." John said, beginning to open the book.

As Sherlock walked up the stairs to go to bed, he had a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that he was dangerously close to falling completely in love with John Watson.

oOoOoOo

John sat up in his bed late that night, engrossed in the chemistry book before him. He had forgotten how fascinating it all was, and Sherlock's notes were beyond brilliant, revolutionary even. He had no idea that the son of Lord Grantham would be such a genius, and an eccentric one at that.

That night was the first night in a long while that John did not dream of the trenches. Instead he saw Sherlock doing laboratory work. He watched as his long and agile fingers picked up test tubes and beakers and poured them together like some sort of dark magician. His eyes darted around, a hypnotic mix of sapphire and verdigris flecked with gold. Even in John's dreams, the man was already endlessly fascinating to him.


	4. Chapter 4

_Hello darlings! Sorry it's been awhile since I've last updated, I just started studying English at University last week! I'm super excited, but I'm also now going to be incredibly busy, so thank you for your patience. :) _

Chapter 4: The Case of the Hidden Laboratory

Sherlock appeared for breakfast the next morning earlier than usual, sat down, and carefully spooned out a plateful of kedgeree in front of him. He was still basking in the afterglow of his new acquaintance with the army doctor, as much as he hated to admit it.

"So," Mary said, slowly pouring tiny spoons of sugar into her tea. "How has the work at the hospital been going, Sherlock?"

Sherlock froze and looked up suddenly as if he had been accused of something, but then quickly regained his composure. "Very well, thank you." he said, giving Mary a confident look to try and reassure her that there was nothing else to be said of it.

"I'm glad you've finally found something useful to do around here." Mary said, tilting her head to the side and avoiding Sherlock's gaze. "This war cannot be won without the help of all of us."

Mary left the table, leaving Sherlock and Sybil alone to discuss the day's paper.

"Sybil, look what this man here says about the by-elections, it seems he-"

"Sherlock..." Sybil said, slowly pulling the paper down from his eyes.

"What now?" Sherlock groaned.

"Why are you so happy this morning? I thought the work at the hospital would have had you cross for weeks on end."

Sherlock looked down at his hard-boiled egg and began to crack it open with his spoon.

"You fancy one of the officers, don't you?" Sybil said, smiling up at him.

Sherlock slowly met her eyes.

"Of course! Oh, which one? Is it the tall brown-haired man who-"

"SYBIL!" Sherlock slammed his fist on the table, and Sybil looked up at him suddenly afraid.

Suddenly Sherlock's eyes turned to icy stone. "You know its no use getting involved. I'll just end up hurt."

"You never kn-"

"Sybil." Sherlock said, looking right at her, hoping she would understand.

And she did, because the emptiness she saw through his eyes wouldn't leave her for days.

o0o0o0o

As anyone would waking up in an unfamiliar place, it took John a few seconds to remember where he was. At least here, he knew that he could carry through the day without fear of getting shot at.

By the looks of it, most of the other men were outside in the gardens, either walking or being pushed in wheelchairs by the nurses in the early afternoon sun. He must have overslept again.

None of this seemed unusual to John. He was very used to being alone and on the outside of things, especially after he had returned from the trenches. The quiet was nice, yet sometimes he felt tempted to scream all his pain away, letting it echo through every hidden corner of the vast and glorious house.

Speaking of which…

John turned out of the library, slowly and cautiously making his way up a grand wooden staircase. No one seemed to be around except for the servants, and they wouldn't mind him taking a look around, would they?

After John had reached the second level of the house, he found a small hidden staircase behind a door. It led up to what must be some kind of servants' quarters.

John stepped up the stairs cautiously, finding at the top what looked like eight or so unused servants' rooms that were completely empty and rather dilapidated looking.

Well…except for one.

The last room on the right had the door suspiciously closed shut and was emitting sounds of clinking glass and what smelled like a strange array of chemicals.

John took a deep breath, stepped back, and knocked.

o0o0o0o

"Hmmmm…" Sherlock said to himself, pouring a vial of purplish-brown liquid into a beaker of boiling water, where it promptly turned midnight black. "Fascinating."

He would be forever thankful that his family had to lay off a quarter of their servants a decade ago, leaving the west upstairs quarters empty. It was the perfect place for him to set up a secret scientific laboratory, which his parents had strictly forbidden since day one. God forbid any of those horrid chemicals damage the beloved house.

This was Sherlock's safe place. Every other room in the house was grand and elaborate and was cleaned by servants on what seemed like an hourly basis. This room was quaint, slightly dirty, and beautifully quiet, and entering its door seemed to comfort Sherlock as if the old bedroom's very essence was an old friend.

Just as Sherlock was about to examine the blackish liquid closer, he froze at the sound of a powerful knock at the door.

"Um." Sherlock said quietly, praying it was one of the servants he could bribe. "Come in."

It was John.

"Oh." John said. "I'm very sorry to interrupt, I, um, just got bored sitting downstairs and I-"

Sherlock laughed. "Trust me. I understand boredom."

John shifted awkwardly, moving the bandage by his shoulder a bit. "Well…um, I best be-"

"No!" Sherlock said, embarrassed by the urgency of the word. "Please. Stay."

He showed John just a hint of a smile, and pulled out a chair for him.

John sat down, sighing with the relief of getting to rest his nearly recovered leg.

Sherlock was unsure of what to do next. This man who he had only met once was sitting in his very private laboratory, sitting down expecting some sort of demonstration. What would he do now? Would his current experiment be impressive enough? Should he start small talking? About the war? Would that be too hard for him?

Sherlock bit down on his lower lip and picked up a beaker and continued to work, waiting for John to say something, anything.

"This laboratory is very impressive." John said. "I assume the Lord and Lady don't know about it…which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine." Sherlock said, absorbed in swirling the contents of the beaker around.

"So um…" John said. "What are you working on at the moment?"

"I'm trying to test how the acidity of different liquids changes when mixed with soil from different locations…it's quite helpful when you can take a sample from O'Brien's shoes and know she has been in Ripon selling off the house's kitchen supplies for spending money."

"Fascinating. May I help?" John asked.

Sherlock froze in place, slightly reluctant. "Of course. Just…um…take the soil in this test tube, and pour about 4.5 milligrams into this beaker of hydroxide…"

John stared at the test tube. "How much is 4.5? The tube isn't labeled."

Sherlock gathered up his courage and slowly walked towards him, lifting up John's hand towards his own eyes, examining the test tube. John's hands were small and tired, but they were also felt so warm…and so…strong. Sherlock tried to hide his blushing from the contact.

"Here…" Sherlock said softly, guiding John's hand towards the beaker and slowly tapping in a few grains of dirt at a time. "Just a bit…more…"

John's hand began to shake abruptly, spilling all of the dirt from the vial into the beaker.

"Oh god…" John said. "I'm so sorry, I-"

"Shell shock?" Sherlock said, looking straight into John's eyes. "Predictable enough."

John blushed a bit and looked down. It was hard to look right at Sherlock…it made him feel…well he didn't really know.

Sherlock began to pour out the ruined contents of the beaker. "It's nothing to be ashamed of John, we all…have our demons."

John sat back down and stared uncomfortably at the floor.

"Ever heard of Wilfred Owen? Siegfried Sasson? Ivor Gurney?"

John looked up. "No…"

"Well you should. At home, they've been the great chroniclers of this terrible war. The poets who've brought the horror home to us."

"And why on earth would they want to do that?" John scoffed.

"It helps them." Sherlock said. "They write the pain out on paper, and little by little, it seems to fade away."

"Really?"

"That's what the papers have said. You should try it sometime."

"What? Writing some sing-song _poetry? _This war has been anything but poetic, I can tell you that._"_

"These men don't write like that…" Sherlock said. "They don't…hide anything."

John was silent for a moment.

"Come back same time tomorrow." Sherlock said. "I saved many of them from the papers. I can show you."

"You wouldn't mind?" asked John.

"No." Sherlock said trying to hide his smile. "Not at all."

"Well um, sorry for intruding." John said. "And spoiling your experiment. I'll come back tomorrow."

"Very well." said Sherlock, pretending to be engrossed in his lab work as John left.

Sherlock looked up and exhaled, praying that Anna didn't throw out his old newspaper clippings this time.

o0o0o0o

John was a bit stunned when he sat back down in his bed at the corner of the library. Sherlock Holmes did something to him that he couldn't quite explain. He was so witty and unconventionally beautiful and so, so strange. Half of John wanted to sprint back up the staircase, and the other half was so embarrassed by this that he wanted to run miles in the opposite direction.


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you all bunches for reading and reviewing! :) I hope you enjoy this chapter, and have also enjoyed fangirling this week over the new Downton trailer and the new Sherlock footage. Allonsy! –chauffeuredinthetardis _

_P.S. The poem used in this chapter is "Dulce Et Decorum Est" By Wilfred Owen_

**Chapter 5**

John's bed had caved in. He had fallen through the floor and landed in the deepest and darkest circle of hell.

He would never simply go to bed, but would sit trying to keep awake until he had no other choice but for sleep to transport him back. He dreaded it like nothing else.

It was all hazy toxic fog and distorted memories. It was never the quiet moments, it was always the pain and the screaming and the terror repeating itself over and over. It was blood and dread and the loss of all the things that made someone human.

John woke up screaming, the two nurses on duty leaning over him. He was still shaking, still trying to place himself in the present moment.

"It's alright Dr. Watson," said a young nurse soothingly, wiping his forehead with a cold towel. "It was only a dream."

John sat up at watched the room around him come into focus, shocked at the stillness and silence of it all.

"No!" he screamed out, tears brimming at his eyes. "I was _there. _No, not just now, but I was there once. How dare you just-"

The nurse stared back at him blankly and looked sorry. John felt immediately guilty.

"I'm sorry…I just…"

"It's perfectly alright Dr. Watson," she said again, tucking him back in under the covers. "You did an honorable thing for your country."

"It doesn't feel like it."

The nurse didn't seem to know how to respond and walked away. John noticed his screams had woken up many of the soldiers in the neighboring beds, and listened as they grumbled and tried to fall back asleep. He also thought, just for a second, that he saw a pair of glowing eyes watching from the dining room next door.

John put his head back down on the pillow and took a deep breath. He felt so alone and cold and empty of everything good and full of everything bad. He had no one. He hated his life. He had nothing to look forward to, nothing to come home to. All he could see were the screams of dying soldiers, good men coming to untimely and horrid deaths, young boys wishing they could die at home instead of on a battlefield filled with rats and filth and despair. The men John had tried so hard to save but couldn't. He had lost himself in this war; it had taken every piece of him and ripped it to shreds. It was all too much. Everyday, the nightmares, the horror, the relentless screaming the-

"_John."_

John shivered as he felt a light touch on his shoulder, and felt his head clear instantly and miraculously. It was Sherlock.

"What are you doing here?"

"Remember how I asked you to come up to my lab to look at poetry tomorrow?"

"Yes."

Sherlock took out his pocket watch. "It's three o'clock in the morning. That's technically tomorrow."

"I'm sorry I woke everyone up, I'll just-"

John shuddered for a moment as he felt Sherlock cautiously take his hand.

"Come with me. Please."

Sherlock's eyes, which were usually so focused and sharp, softened themselves and looked at John with a kindness and urgency that seemed foreign on his face. Everyone was kind to John at Downton, but only because that was their job; as nurses, as people who supported the war effort. It was all so artificial. But this was different. Sherlock's kindness was nothing about duty. It was about John.

Sherlock pulled John up from the bed and then loosened his grip on his hand, sighing as he let it fall away.

They snuck up the grand staircase in the dark, Sherlock teaching John to avoid the creaky floorboards as they went, until eventually they found the door that led up to the abandoned servants' hall. The lab looked even eerier at night, except for the fact that the moon was casting a warm glow on the room through a tiny open window, illuminating the scientific instruments scattered on the table.

Sherlock began to make tea, boiling a kettle on a hot plate as if he did it every morning. Which John realized, he probably did.

"Chamomile with milk and honey," Sherlock said, handing a teacup to John. "Hopefully that'll calm you down a bit."

John sat down on the old servants' bed still sitting in the corner and stared blankly into the teacup. "I'm sorry I woke you up. You don't have to do this."

Sherlock sat down next to John on the bed, making strong and direct eye contact with him. "You were screaming in terror. I couldn't just leave you down there alone."

There was then a silence that stretched on uncomfortably as they sat there on the bed, and a tension that they were both too scared to acknowledge.

"Here are some of the poems I've saved," Sherlock said, pulling out an envelope filled with what looked like dozens of yellowed newspaper clippings. "This is just one envelope, I've got about 20 more in my room upstairs, all categorized by subject."

"And what envelope is this?"

"War." Sherlock said, and slipped a clipping from the envelope.

John exhaled deeply.

"I heard the nurse tell you how honorable your service was to comfort you."

"Yes."

"It just made it worse though didn't it? You know it's a lie."

"Are you suggesting that my service wasn't honorable?"

"Not you John. Not any of the men who fought. But this whole grandiose…thing. This thing they call war. There's not an ounce of glory in it. Everything about it is _wrong._"

John simply stared back at him.

"You took Latin back in your school days, I presume?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes…"

"Dulce et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori."

John blinked and bit his lip, sighing. "It translates to…to…"

"Yes?"

"It is sweet and right to…die for one's country." John stammered out. He sighed and rested his head in his hands. "They're wrong."

Sherlock gave John a slight smile. "I know…just listen."

John knew what was coming. He didn't want to hear more about the terrors of war, he didn't want his mind to go back to that place. But for some reason, he felt quite safe here. Him and Sherlock, sitting on the rickety old bed, leaning against the wall, the moonlight giving the room a soft, sleepy, almost hypnotic glow…

"_Dulce Et Decorum Est, _by Wilfred Owen." Sherlock read.

"_Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,  
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,  
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs  
And towards our distant rest began to trudge."_

John swallowed down a sip of tea and tried to block the images from coming back, but it was useless.

"_Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots  
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;  
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots  
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind."_

Sherlock's voice was beautiful. It was deep and lovely and pronounced every little detail of every word, slowly dragging the story out in a way that fascinated John but also pained him.

"_GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!- An ecstasy of fumbling,  
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;  
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling  
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.-  
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light  
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning."_

John froze and stared ahead of him, biting down on his lip and trying not to cry. He treated men for gas. He saw them screaming, going blind, their faces distorted, insides melting apart. There was a boy who had snuck into the army early, he was only sixteen, and a blast of mustard gas had left him on John's operating table, screaming and pleading for death, for the comfort of home, for his mother and father. It was only John's first week there. He should have said some comforting words, but he was so scared of his pain, so stricken with shock at the horror of it, that no words came, and he let the boy die there. Alone. And it would always haunt him.

"_In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,  
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning…"_

That was when John broke down.

"John…" Sherlock said, unsure of what to do. "John are you…?"

John was shaking and shivering and sobbing like the inhuman mess of emotions the war had turned him into. It all started rushing back. _God no, _John thought, _I can't cry like this right now, I can't-"_

Sherlock, at a sudden and unusual loss for the right words, had no other choice. He rushed to wrap his arms around John, and shivered as he felt how fast he was trembling. He shook rapidly as if some sort of demon had possessed him and refused to let go, no matter how hard John fought back.

The more John tried to control himself, the more he cried. He sobbed and sobbed and sobbed until his insides ached. He rested his head on Sherlock's chest and tried to slow down his shaky breathing, but Sherlock only gripped him tighter.

"Shhhh…" Sherlock cooed, rocking John slowly back and forth and stroking the back of his head. "You're safe now. I won't let anyone hurt you."

John realized no one had held him like this since before he had left for the war, perhaps since he was a child, and _god_, how he needed it. This mysterious man who he had only met a few days before, holding him, listening to him cry, letting John's tears stain his pajama shirt. Being in the arms of a man felt strange, and felt wrong, but in that moment, it was all John wanted in the world.

They lay there for five whole minutes in complete silence as John steadied his breathing...as Sherlock laced the blond locks of John's hair through his long fingers…as John listened to the rhythm of Sherlock's heartbeat through his shirt…as Sherlock wiped away tears off John's cheek with the tip of his finger. The moon cast a soft caressing light on them, as if acknowledging some sort of universal satisfaction at this simple and blissful moment of peace.

"I'm _so so sorry…_" Sherlock whispered, holding back tears. "You weren't ready to hear that, I hurt you, it was foolish, I-"

"No…" John whispered back, with his head still buried in Sherlock's shirt. "Finish it…please."

"I really don't know if I-"

"I have to know how it ends."

Sherlock picked up the newspaper clipping from the edge of the bed reluctantly. He didn't want to hear John cry like that again. Ever. It tortured him in a way that was new to him, and so, so horrible.

Sherlock took a deep breath, noticing the unfamiliar and warm weight of John's head on his chest. He wasn't sure if he could do it.

"_If in some smothering dreams you too could pace  
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,  
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,  
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;  
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood  
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,  
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud  
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-"_

John noticed Sherlock's consistently seamless voice begin to crackle towards the end, and John buried himself deeper and deeper into the folds of Sherlock's shirt as he held John tighter and tighter in his arms.

"_My friend, you would not tell with such high zest  
To children ardent for some desperate glory,  
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est  
Pro patria mori."_

John let out a shuddering breath. "He's right. It's a lie."

Sherlock looked out the window. "Sweet and fitting. How wrong that phrase is."

"If I ever have children…" John said, choking on his breath. "I won't lie to them about it. If…if there's another war…I won't let them go."

"Quite right." Sherlock said. "You'll tell them the truth."

"You know the posters they hang up in town?" John asked, staring blankly at the wall.

"The ones telling the boys to join up and fight? The ones where they march off to the fields of France with smiling faces, returning as strong and noble heroes…" Sherlock said, rambling off into the distance.

"I hate them." John said.

"I know." Sherlock said, tracing patterns on John's back with his finger.

"I want to burn them."

"And you should."

There was another moment of silence as they lay there; slowly realizing they may have crossed a boundary that would forever change things for both of them.

"I should go back now." John said, missing the feeling of Sherlock holding him the second he slipped away from his touch.

"What if the nightmares come back?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't have that much time left to sleep anyway, I'll be-"

"Stay." Sherlock said softly, his eyes staring into John's in a pleading way that told him perhaps he needed him as well.

John looked as Sherlock and let himself fall back onto the bed, knowing in that moment he was at the point of no return.

Sherlock pulled a quilt of the two of them as they lay there, only a foot apart, staring into the darkness.

"I'm afraid to go back to sleep." John said.

"I won't leave you." Sherlock said. "I promise you'll be fine."

And with that, John drifted off to a peaceful sleep.

o0o0o0o

When Sherlock woke up, John was gone. He smiled upon seeing the indentation in the mattress next to him. He had overslept as usual, and assumed John had gotten up early, safe and sound.

Sherlock knew this was a dangerous game to play. John was desperate for care and love and affection, but it in no way meant he would ever grow to care for Sherlock the way he was slowly coming to care for John. He could get his heart broken. Badly.

But this was a thought he had pushed to the back of his mind. How could he think of the dangers involved after last night? It was so intimate, not in _that_ way of course, but a very broken man had opened up his heart and soul to him. No one ever told him their secrets. He was Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't the kind of man you trusted with those hidden parts of you.

He hated seeing John cry like that, hated seeing him be so vulnerable and broken. But he loved holding him, feeling him clinging on to him as if Sherlock was the only anchor keeping him on this world.

It was noon, and Sherlock finally got dressed and strolled downstairs only to run into Mr. Carson, the butler.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes." Carson said, looking at him questioningly. "You're a tad late this morning."

"I'm afraid so." said Sherlock.

"Lady Sybil has asked me to inquire about you joining her for tea outside in the garden."

"Oh." Sherlock said. "Of course."

Sherlock walked outside, finding a beautiful day and an open sky, as well as his lovely sister sitting besides cups of tea and plates of sandwiches.

Sherlock sighed. "You've woken up early. You look eager. Yet also tired. There's a biscuit crumb on your dress from earlier. You know, don't you?"

Sybil laughed. "Of course I know."

"How?"

"You two bloody woke me up traipsing up that staircase last night, so I went up to your lab two hours later, and there you both were. Asleep."

"Did anyone else see?" Sherlock asked frantically.

"I don't believe so. My room is the only one remotely close to the old servant quarters." Sybil said.

"Oh." Sherlock said, picking up a sandwich and examining it.

"So…what happened exactly?" Sybil asked, her eyes begging for details.

"Not what you think."

"Then what then?"

Sherlock sighed and turned more serious. "He's not yet recovered from the war. He cried in my arms. He woke up from nightmares. I was there to comfort him."

"Oh god…" Sybil lamented with concern in her eyes.

"It's alright." Sherlock said, taking a sip of tea. "It was nothing anyway."

"What do you mean _nothing_?"

Sherlock sighed. "He's not like me Sybil. It's quite obvious. He's just very, very broken and in need of affection. He needs it badly enough that he doesn't care who it comes from."

"Listen," Sybil said, taking hold of Sherlock's hand. "Love is a tricky business. But you don't ever give up. Sometimes it just takes time…"

"I can't get my hopes up."

Sybil smiled at him. "If you never have any hope Sherlock, you'll never get anywhere."

"I'll try to hope. But not too hard though." Sherlock said, a bit of sadness breaking through his face.

"People can surprise you, you know."

"Really. And when has that ever happened?"

"I'm sure John never expected you to show him such affection last night." Sybil said with a smile, and Sherlock smiled back.

o0o0o0o

John was pleased to wake up from a peaceful sleep, but embarrassed the second he saw Sherlock curled up next to him. The flashbacks hit John like an avalanche. He had woken up screaming in terror; let Sherlock draw him into the laboratory. He had listened to his deep, soothing voice read of the horrors of the war he had survived and he had cried more, he had trembled in his arms like a child, falling asleep next to him.

He had watched the man who was cold and calculating to everyone else turn kind and nurturing and lovely. For him. To keep him safe.

John stood up and began to pace the room. Sherlock was still lying there asleep, a soft smile gracing the cupid's bow of his lips, his hands reaching up above his pillow. He looked picturesque even in sleep, unlike John, who could usually hardly stay asleep long enough to even look slightly at peace.

He had the sudden urge to crawl back in bed next to him.

This was when John began to panic.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

It was wrong to feel that way.

He refused to feel that way.

It was wrong.

But he felt that way. He most definitely did.

John sprinted out of the room and down the staircase as fast as he possibly could.

"Dr. Watson." A nurse said as he sat back down on his bed in the library. "Where had you gone off to?"

John blushed a bit and stumbled over his sentence. "I was just returning from an early-morning walk."

The nurse smiled. "That's lovely! You're getting closer and closer to recovery. You should be out of here any day now."

"Any day now?"

"Yes!" The nurse smiled. "Isn't that wonderful?"

"But…what if I think I still need time to recover?"

"That's up for the Doctor to decide. But clearly if you're out for walks this early you should be ready soon. And besides, we must make room for new patients coming in. You're a Doctor yourself, you understand."

"Yes. Yes, of course."

"And with all the chaos that happens in this house, you'll be better off at home. Everyone's been running about for the flower show up here and downstairs they're going insane trying to find a new footman. The last one, William, very sweet boy, died in battle a few months back."

"That's awful." John said.

"Indeed." The nurse said. "Have a nice day, Dr. Watson."

John had completely forgotten that he was set to leave Downton soon. But he would have to. His injuries were nearly completely recovered. Physical injuries, anyhow. But what was there to come home to? And he couldn't leave Sherlock. Not now. Part of him wanted to run away from him when he could, but there were so many things about that man that he was so eager to find out. And things he had to find out about himself.

John found the staircase that led downstairs and ran down it, knocking on the first door he saw.

"Yes?" The butler, Mr. Carson, said from behind his desk.

"Mr. Carson. I'm Dr. John Watson, of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. And I'd like to apply for the position of footman."


End file.
